By: JaTon Kılınç

I live on the Aegean Sea, in a resort town built along the cliffs. It’s a bustling yet charming small city with a thriving local community and a steady flow of permanent expats—mainly from Europe, or so I’ve noticed thus far.

There is, however, an American couple who live part-time here, two floors above me. They’ve been coming to Turkey every year for the past eight years. I won’t even tell you how I reacted when I discovered that a fellow American—from Texas, no less—was in my building. Let’s just say it was the emotional equivalent of watching Jesus rise from the dead. Tears filled my eyes, my hands involuntarily formed a prayer, and my knees buckled as I fell to the floor in thanks to the heavens.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little—but I was thrilled to finally speak English to someone outside my household without getting the “deer in headlights” look after saying “hello.”

But I digress—let’s get back on track, shall we? I wake up every morning to a stunning view of the sea. Once the mist drifts upward, I can even see Greece from my balcony. My mornings are very different now than they were four months ago—and so are my days.

I still begin with a 10–15 minute meditation session, but instead of dragging my feet to get ready for a desk job, I get to decide how I want to spend my day. Let me give you a glimpse by describing today.

Around noon, I took a walk. There are two grocery stores less than a block from my apartment, so I stopped by one to pick up some food on the way back. The shopkeepers are beginning to remember us and grow friendlier each time we visit. The butcher handed me freshly ground beef and said the Turkish equivalent of “bon appétit.” The cashier gave me a small wink and a warm smile as he returned my change.

My daughter has taken a liking to one kitten in particular, so we bought cat food and helped a kind Turkish woman feed the neighborhood strays. It felt good—almost like a small act of community service. When we finished, the woman thanked us both for helping.

Before our walk, one of our neighbors—a sweet seventy-five-year-old man—offered us tea and refreshments at his home. When we politely declined, he handed us fresh fruit instead.

The rest of my day was simple and lovely. I worked on the sequel to my novel, made fresh pasta and sauce from scratch, and ended the afternoon watching the sun sink into the Aegean Sea. My days often begin and end with the sea.

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s not a hectic one either. No more hour-long commutes in traffic and no more road rage. No more fast food because I was too exhausted to cook. No more filling my mind with political chaos, racial conflict, or celebrity nonsense that adds nothing to my human experience. So, is there anything I miss about home? Of course.

I miss my family and friends.
I miss certain foods.
I miss the ease and convenience that America offers.
I miss hearing English on television without needing subtitles.
I miss American music and being effortlessly understood.
I miss calling home without calculating the seven- or eight-hour time difference, depending on daylight savings.

But overall, my life here is more peaceful.

Here, neighbors speak to me.
Here, people go out of their way to help.
Here, food tastes fresher.
I had almost forgotten what a grape with seeds actually tastes like.

I also love the year-round Mediterranean warmth. Here, I’ve learned to appreciate the simple things—to find joy in both what I’ve gained and what I left behind.

There’s less background noise, which gives me more time to think, reflect, and create. In America, my days were filled with constant noise. I was always rushing, barely finding time to think, let alone pursue my passions.

Weekends were spent cramming in everything I couldn’t finish during the week. My husband and I have been married for less than two years—still newlyweds, really—and yet we barely saw each other back then. We were both too busy surviving the never-ending hamster wheel, that infamous “rat race.”

Now, I have nothing but time.

It’s not perfect—I do get lonely sometimes (check out my article “Lonely in Paradise“)—but it’s life for now, and it’s an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world.